


Cats in Venice

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Humor, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John ate two slices of pizza and Sherlock a half while they lay next to each other on the mattress. After they were finished John tried to initiate a little kissing, reasoning they had nothing better to do anyway as it was hardly likely anyone would arrive or leave during the sacred hour of lunch. Besides, Sherlock looked inordinately appealing in the soft, filtered light of the tent, his lips shiny from the olive oil. Sherlock didn’t seem adverse at first, even opening his mouth to grant John access, but all of a sudden he started fidgeting and squirming, complaining John’s sighs and moans were giving their game away. John’s hand was already reaching for the knob on the transistor to deal with that little problem when Sherlock froze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cats in Venice

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sherlockmas ssv over at LJ.  
> Betaed by the lovely swissmarg. I want to thank her very much for her help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course. I’d also like to thank the lovely nausicaa83 and nyxviola both for helping me with Italian language issues and Venetian details.

At the corner of Marylebone Road and Baker Street the rain that had been hovering in low-hung slate-grey clouds all day started pouring down in earnest. John broke into a run, the Tesco shopping bags a serious hindrance as they swung and bumped themselves against his knees. He tried to hug the buildings as closely as possible in a vain attempt to shelter himself against the onslaught of water wrapping him in sheets of wetness, but to no avail. By the time he reached his front door he was drenched to the skin. He plunked the bags down and began the fumbling search for his keys with fingers that felt stiff and half-frozen with the cold, cursing the bloody weather, the bloody English summer and the bloody rotten Tesco – he would have made it home just before the onset of the rain if there hadn’t been such a long queue for the only functioning chip-and-pin machine. 

Still, he was glad the blasted machine had accepted his card at all. A few weeks ago Sherlock had gone into a shopping frenzy, ordering chemistry equipment, an inordinately expensive microscope and an astonishing number of ridiculously overpriced books on deep sea geology, a subject that had enthralled his avid interest for three whole days. Ever since they had been bordering on the verge of bankruptcy.

The moment he inserted the key into the lock the door was yanked open from the inside. John nearly tumbled forward at the unexpected motion – another invective dropping from his lips – but was caught just in time by the strong hands of his boyfriend drawing him into the hall. He was pushed up against the wall, the shopping bags following him shortly after. Next a towel was shoved under his nose, accompanied by a deep growl of immense annoyance: “Why don’t you check your phone? I have been texting you to come home for the last two hours.”

With some difficulty John managed to wriggle his hand into the sodden pocket of his jeans in order to draw out his phone. He squinted at the screen. The battery was empty. The last week had been one huge effort on his part to keep at bay the massive boredom that had been threatening Sherlock’s sanity and consequently John’s own, as no new cases had presented themselves. Apparently the dismal weather had a dampening effect on people’s ingenuity in killing each other off or any alternative endeavours at interesting crimes that could have necessitated Greg to ask for his favourite consulting detective’s scrutiny. The website hadn’t generated any new cases either. In the subsequent stress John had neglected to recharge his phone.

“I’m so sorry … “ he began, but Sherlock waved his excuses away with an irritated hand.

“We haven’t any time for this. Dry off and change. I have some clothes for you here.” He gestured to a neat pile on the fourth step of the stairs. “Our flight leaves in an hour.”

“What ... ”

Sherlock picked up the bags and stalked over to 221A.

“Mrs Hudson,” he called out. 

Their landlady, looking harassed and worn out, opened the door.

“He’s finally turned up. Doing the shopping was deemed to be more important than reading my texts,” Sherlock told her, his voice brimming with disdain. 

He dashed into her flat. John heard a distinct thud as the bags hit the surface of Mrs Hudson’s kitchen table, accompanied by a continuous flow of disparaging tones. “Why _does_ he insist on trying to feed me asparagus? He knows I don’t eat them, they’re green. We’ll be away for a week at least. Feel free to partake of anything you need, the veggies and fruit in particular.” 

He materialised in the hallway again. “For God’s sake, John. Could you get a move on? A comatose slug in the Gobi desert teems with more activity than you.” 

He made to tug John’s jeans from his hips, which would have been fine normally, more than fine, but not right in their entryway with their landlady eying the scene in the background. John swatted Sherlock’s hands away.

“Hang on,” he said, bristles turned up by Sherlock’s behaviour. “You could have the decency to actually enlighten me as to what all this is about.”

His display of displeasure seemed to have a calming effect. Sherlock backed away.

“It’s a case,” he explained. “A jewel theft in Venice. Please, John. I’ve already contacted Mycroft. He won’t be able to keep our plane grounded for more than an extra fifteen minutes at the most. In less than an hour it will be off. The next flight doesn’t leave until the early evening. We need to get to Venice as soon as possible. Every minute counts.”

“All right,” John yielded. ”Towel my back, will you?” He turned and started on his belt. 

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,“ he cried, hoping she would take the hint. 

She closed her door with a relieved-sounding “Good luck, boys. Do take care of yourselves.” 

John breathed more freely and didn’t mind shedding his soaked underwear now his landlady had beat a retreat.

“Mrs Hudson packed your suitcase. The temperatures in Venice are in the upper twenties so I selected a few lightweight items from the amazing array of clothes that constitutes your wardrobe.”

“Upset my sock index again,” John joked.

Sherlock drew himself up to six feet something of insulted consulting detective.

“I’ve taken photographic evidence to prove that the haphazard upheaval of single socks I had the displeasure of discovering to be the contents of your sock drawer was left in the exact same disorder I found it in, minus seven pairs of more or less matching socks. As you’re so fastidious about the orderliness of the contents of our living room I wouldn't have thought you to be a man who is indifferent to the organisation of his personal effects. I’ll have to assume, then, there must be some odd, probably ineffectual, design behind this preference for storing your socks in the most impractical manner.”

John decided to ignore the speech. He should have known Sherlock was in no mood for any attempts at humour. What with the stress of an impending case. 

Instead, he hoisted himself into the caramel-colored trousers Sherlock had decided upon, along with the matching caramel and light blue checked linen shirt and coffee-coloured cotton cardigan. John had bought the ensemble during the spring in expectation of the long, hot summer that had never arrived. He had thought it suited him very well, the shades accentuating the dark blue of his eyes and highlighting the blond hairs that still shone among the increasing number of grey ones. The fact that Sherlock had chosen these clothes confirmed he’d been right to feel satisfied while standing in front of the fitting mirror in the shop.

“Excellent,” Sherlock said in approval, obviously mollified at the sight of John in his new attire.

John threw him a grateful glance and nearly jumped at the insistent ring of the doorbell as it sounded close to his ear. 

“Our cab,” Sherlock said briskly. “Come on, John. Mrs Hudson will tidy those wet things, I’m sure.”

John knelt down to tie his laces, leaving Sherlock no option but to stoop to the menial task of handing the cabbie their suitcases.

“Gatwick departures. An extra twenty pounds if you get us there by four o’clock.”

The cabbie drove off with such speed that John was thrown against Sherlock’s shoulder. The next moment he felt Sherlock’s arm sneak around him and he was drawn even closer.

“Well done, you.” Sherlock nuzzled his hair.

John closed his eyes for this short moment of bliss. He’d ask Sherlock to brief him about the case later, during their flight. The following days would probably bring nothing but frantic chasing and running through the crowded streets of what was said to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But maybe if he was lucky - if he was very, very lucky - after the completion of the case Sherlock would acquiesce to one day of them playing at being tourists. John didn’t aspire to a ride in a gondola, but a quiet walk through moonlit back streets, taking advantage of the opportunity provided by a shadowed doorway to engage in a little kissing, wasn’t too much to ask, was it now? 

***

The cab skidded to a stop with screeching wheels in front of the terminal at five minutes before the hour. Sherlock jumped from the vehicle while throwing some notes in the general direction of the driver. John hurried to the boot to retrieve their luggage.

The Gatwick departure terminal was filled to the brim with a seething heap of agitated holiday-goers. By the time John had managed to fight his way through the entrance, Sherlock was already twenty closely packed rows of barely moving bodies ahead of him, his dark head of curls bobbing like a masthead above the sardined sea of humanity that undulated around him. 

John set his mouth and attempted to follow his boyfriend but found himself as bogged down in the mass as a Fiat 500 that had managed to ground itself in the mud. He kept up a steady stream of ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘I’m so terribly sorry’s’ but was unable to keep up the pace Sherlock set, what with the added load of two suitcases, which turned out to be surprisingly heavy.

He was contemplating using them as a kind of crowbar to break up the congested lump around him when he was shoved quite hard in the back. He whipped around in fury.

“I do apologise,” the hapless Japanese backpacker said in heavily accented English, gesturing apologetically at his giant rucksack, which had been the cause of the mishap. 

“Never mind.” John smiled kindly. The boy had pointed up the inadvisability of his intended action. He decided to holler instead: “Sherlock!!!”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and spun around, sharp eyes scanning the crowd, singling John out in just three seconds. John watched as Sherlock made his way back to him, making him feel like a ten-year-old all over again, when he had been sitting in front of the telly with Harry, a bowl of salt and vinegar crisps and a fizzy drink between them, staring openmouthed at the screen as Charlton Heston parted the Red Sea with a thundering voice and mighty waving of his arms. Except this was much more impressive, as Sherlock didn’t need to raise his voice or make exaggerated movements to cause men, women and children to scurry to the side to let him pass.

“Come on, John. We’ve only seven minutes left to catch that plane.” Sherlock gripped the bicep of John’s right arm and towed him along, the waves of people closing into a wriggling, frothing swell immediately after their passage.

At the check-in counter Sherlock strolled right to the front off the line.

“Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson,” he told the attendant, ignoring the angry protests of the customer next to him.

A pretty blush coloured the girl’s cheeks. “Mr Holmes,” she chimed. “It’s an honour to have you flying with British Airways.” She waved to one of her colleagues in front of the counters.

The colleague signalled for them to follow her, repeating the pat phrase before she set off at an athletic pace on her incredibly high heels. John kept on beside her with a glance of admiration at her feet pounding the floor as assuredly as if she were wearing sneakers.

“You’ve three minutes left,” she breathed. “I’ve been authorised to bypass customs and we have adjusted the gate number for this flight so it’s just a short stretch.”

They slalomed through the crowds to a door next to the customs area which led them to departures. Their plane was waiting for them at the first gate. They were waved through without fuss and accompanied by the flight attendant to their business class seats. She gently took the suitcases from John’s hand and stowed them in the compartments above their heads.

They were just able to collapse into their seats before the plane started taxiing towards the runway, the captain’s voice welcoming their late passengers aboard and droning his apologies to the other passengers for the delay. 

John buckled his seat belt and tried to calm his racing heart. The last ten minutes had been more frantic than any chasing after criminals he had done lately.

“You must have burdened yourself with the promise to look into the most spectacularly boring case of government funds embezzlement once we return,” he said with a grin. 

Sherlock grimaced. John patted his hand.

“I’ll help with the paperwork,” he soothed. “Still, you’ve got to admit it’s handy. Having a big brother that actually is Big Brother. I just hope the case will make it worthwhile. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“A glass of water and a beer,” Sherlock told the flight attendant before turning to John while drawing his mobile out of his jacket pocket.

“Sherlock, no,” John admonished him, flicking up his eyes at the overhead signs that announced quite clearly the use of mobiles wasn’t allowed yet.

“Nonsense. Don’t be an idiot, John.” Sherlock’s fingers tapped away at the keys.

“No.” John snatched the device out of his hand. “I won’t have you crash the plane during take-off. I do actually value my life. And don’t try to wrestle this from me. I was a soldier once, remember? You can have it back once we’re safely up in the air.” He spoke in his most definite tones and stashed the phone with deliberateness into the pocket of his cardigan.

A pout licked at the corners of Sherlock’s lips.

“And don’t start that,” John continued. “Think, would you? You’re supposed to be the genius around here.”

“Fine,” Sherlock spat.

John relented a bit. “Why don’t you just relate the bits that don’t require illustrated evidence first?”

Sherlock took a deep breath.

“I was contacted this afternoon by Signora Gianna Ugolini,” he said. “She knew about me thanks to your blog. The H.O.U.N.D. case in particular whipped up her interest. I told you before you let your imagination run away with you in writing down that one. I’ve stressed time and again you should stay close to the facts, John.” 

He cast John a withering look before continuing: “It appears she’s also the last descendant of an ancient Venetian family. They’ve always managed to avoid the limelight, but through the centuries they’ve amassed an enormous fortune. A large portion was invested into jewelry, including some very famous pieces. Her very elaborate e-mail wasn’t quite clear but it appears she kept many if not all of the items at her home, highly inadvisable but there it is. I replied, asking for more details, I even phoned, but all she would tell me was that her jewels had been stolen and I must come and find them.”

“Doesn’t sound very exciting,” John commented.

“No, that was my initial idea as well and I almost rejected the case. Told her she should go to the police. She piqued my interest when she dismissed that option straight away, telling me she didn’t believe them to be any help at all. Quite an astute observation of their general usefulness. I contacted her insurance agency and her bank manager and they both were adamant those jewels were safely tucked inside a vault that’s more secure than the Bank of England.”

“I guess I don’t want to know just how you managed to extract that information,” John prompted.

“Probably not. Can’t have you detailing every trick in that blog of yours. She hadn’t yet informed them of the theft. Underneath the hysterical picture she presented over the phone she must be quite an astute women.”

“So what did you need your phone for then?”

“I was going to check whether she had already managed to book us into a hotel. I didn’t have the time to make the arrangements. As you didn’t answer my texts …”

John laughed. “You can check that while we’re standing in line at the Italian customs.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes with a pained look.

“All right. I’ll help you with the paperwork on the second most spectacularly boring case of government funds embezzlement as well. Now shut up and let me enjoy the luxury while it lasts.”  
John tilted his chair back a little. “These chairs really are amazingly comfortable. How’s the leg space?”

No answer.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Here’s your phone.” John handed Sherlock his lifeline. 

“Thank you. The leg space is quite sufficient actually.”

“Glad to hear.”

“In fact, I’ve something for you in return.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Sherlock shot out of his chair and started delving into the overhead compartment. “Here, I sent Mrs Hudson out to procure a map of Venice and a tourist guide while we were waiting for you. I’ve indicated the address of our client on the map. I suggest you use the next couple of hours acquainting yourself with the city.” He checked his phone. “And our hotel is situated just around the corner from her home. I must say she appears to be a very practical woman.”

John eyed the map and the small booklet with some weariness. He had been looking rather forward to nursing his beer while staring blankly out the window to appreciate the almost-forgotten picture of a sky in that most unexpected of colours – blue. Oh well, there would be plenty of blue skies in Italy to admire. He turned to his task with a sigh.

Next to him Sherlock immersed himself in the contemplation of various Italian newspaper websites.

“Surely there’s nothing on the case there yet?”

“Hmmm.”

For the next quarter of an hour John attempted to make either head or tails of the startling warren that apparently was Venice’s street system. He was jolted back to reality as the chair next to him jerked into a reclining position. When he looked over Sherlock was in full ‘piss-off-I’m-thinking’-mode, eyes closed, fingers steepled beneath his chin. 

The flight attendant tiptoed towards them.

“Everything all right, sir?” she whispered, her hushed tones barely able to mask the anxiety that set her chin quivering.

John gave her what he hoped to be a reassuring smile.

“Yeah. Just ignore him. That always works the best for everyone.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

***

At Aeroporto Marco Polo, Sherlock chose a water taxi as the quickest mode of transport to their hotel. They would drop their luggage there and head straight for a meeting with Signora Ugolini. 

John was startled by Sherlock’s transformation as he strode out into the arrival hall. Heavy sunglasses dropped down to perch on his nose, and John realised with a start he hadn’t noticed them where they must have been hidden on the top of his head among the abundance of whorls in London and during the flight. Only now his friend blended in smoothly with the Italians crowding the hall to welcome their loved ones did he first notice Sherlock was wearing a new suit and shirt. How could he not have seen it earlier? The suit was another perfect example of the tailor’s art in a dark blue linen, hugging Sherlock’s shoulders and narrow hips and accentuating his waist. The shirt was cut out of dreamy, light blue cotton, and now John recognised the colour had been highlighting the blue glints in Sherlock’s colourless eyes, currently hidden behind a pair of designer sunglasses. John stood still for a moment, admiring the stunning picture.

_”Come on, John.”_

The time for paying compliments had clearly passed. Sherlock was gearing up for the hunt. John made do with ogling his boyfriend’s tightly-clad arse as it swayed before him on endless legs. He would pay the attire all the proper attention it was due later. The bill they ran at the dry cleaner’s was already massive, so a few more items wouldn’t make that much difference.

***

There must be worse ways to approach this city than over the water, John mused during their boatride. He allowed himself to enjoy every minute as the boat sped along. They ended up in front of the exterior of an impressive Renaissance palazzo, but from what John had seen so far the whole city was composed of impressive Renaissance palazzos. His mouth only fell open once he entered the lobby and realised the term was wholly inadequate to describe the glittery ostentation that greeted him there. Next to him, Sherlock snorted derisively, not bothering to take off his glasses as he strode the length of the entrance hall.

“Sherlock,” John hissed, breaking into an undignified trot to keep up with him. “Are you sure we ended up at the right hotel?”

Sherlock didn’t deign to answer him, instead addressing the suave attendant behind the reception desk: “Buonasera. C'è una camera prenotata a nostro nome. Sherlock Holmes e il dottore John Watson."”

“Certo, certo. Benvenuti. Siamo estasiati che il famoso investigatore abbia deciso di alloggiare da noi. E il suo leale compagno, naturalmente!“ 

The rapid Italian of the clerk went completely past John. Earlier, he had decided not to give Sherlock the satisfaction of staring open-mouthed at him as Sherlock had instructed the boat cabbie in perfect Italian, and John was determined to remain unimpressed. John himself knew about fifty words of Italian, most of these referring to his favourite dishes at Angelo’s. Of course he’d known Sherlock spoke French, German, Spanish and Russian fluently, so he shouldn’t really be surprised Italian was on his list of accomplished languages as well. Together with Mandarin Chinese and some obscure Aboriginal dialect, presumably.

John waited docilely while Sherlock completed the formalities, keeping up a rapid fire exchange of staccato Italian with the clerk all the while. The sound of his boyfriend's dark voice draping itself around the round vowels and rolling r’s was quite seductive. He instantly decided he preferred it by far to Sherlock speaking French, and he let himself be carried away by the quick rise and fall of brisk tones. He was jolted back to reality when the handles of the suitcases were coaxed out of his hands by a simpering bellboy. Since this palace of sumptuous wealth was to be their abode for the next few days, he mentally prepared himself to be confronted by someone at the ready to hand him a warmed towel every time he emerged from the toilet in the hotel’s restaurant to wash his hands.

“The price of this place must be way over the moon,” he said as he followed Sherlock on a flight of stairs that would have done any royal palace proud, Sherlock having decided the stairs would be quicker than waiting for the lift to reach their room.

“I couldn’t agree with you more. The place was already too bloody expensive when our parents took us here for the summer holidays. The surroundings have been sadly allowed to deteriorate since then. However, Signora Ugolini will take care of the bill, so I advise you to enjoy the luxury while it lasts.” He shot John a smug smile.

John set aside the image that had popped up in his mind of Sherlock as a toddler and Mycroft as a young boy holding the hand of their nanny as they walked behind their parents through the halls of this sumptuous castle. Rather a different way to spend the vacation than the Watsons' yearly Benidorm package holiday tour, and _those_ had been considered the height of decadent luxury by some of his friends.

Their suite presented itself in the same overall décor of opulent extravagance. Personally, John considered the excess of cavorting putti and goddesses among gilded scrolls and costly brocade a little stifling, but he couldn’t find any fault with the view beyond the French windows nor the springiness of the bed. He bounced up and down the excessively upholstered monstrosity a few times. The place was inspiring him to give free rein to his inner child.

“John, behave yourself please,” Sherlock reprimanded him while handing some coins to the bellboy, who had finally arrived with their suitcases, looking like he was ready to drop.

John giggled. He was just about to answer Sherlock when the phone on the night table started ringing. Sherlock was beside it in three strides.

“Pronto!” John heard a shrill woman’s voice start an excited stream of chatter. Even though he was seated at the other side of the bed the piercing tones hit his ear unpleasantly. Sherlock tried to interrupt the excessive shower several times but found himself cut short at every attempt. “Si, siamo arrivati.” – “Adesso siamo al Danieli.” – “Si, va tutto bene, è tutto molto confortevole, grazie.” – “Si.” – “Certamente.” – “Si si. ” – “Ho capito, grazie.” 

The look on his face grew increasingly annoyed. At last he growled into the receiver: “Lasceremo l'hotel tra qualche minuti. Arrivederci,” and all but threw the receiver back onto its cradle.

_”Come on, John.”_

***

The Ugolini residence indeed proved to be just around the corner, as Sherlock had said. John eyed the long row of bells on the wall next to the high wooden gate with an estimating look. Sherlock snorted at him while he studied the row. None of them bore a name plate.

“Don’t let first appearances fool you, John,” he said. “Behind this gate you will likely find a palace to exceed every idea of decadence your mind is capable of. Please, do try and keep the gaping to the bare minimum. The picture you made of yourself when we entered the hotel made me seriously doubt my own judgment for an instant.” He pressed a seemingly random bell and pushed against the door that was set in the gate as the intercom buzzer sounded, ignoring the clatter of Italian that accompanied it.

John debated briefly whether he would punch Sherlock in the face now or wait until the next deliberate insult. He chose to wait for the next and plastered a mask of indifference onto his face instead, and stepped after his boyfriend. 

As soon as he crossed the threshold, he was transported to a spacious courtyard that had been transformed into a delightful garden of potted plants around an ornate baroque fountain. John’s senses of smell and sight were stimulated by the heady scents of Mediterranean herbs and splashes of vibrant colour. Sherlock was already halfway across the garden, aiming for an elaborate entranceway to a flight of staircases. John hurried after him.

The staircase put the Danieli excesses to shame. John deliberately kept his eyes focused on the timeworn marble steps that had been glossed to a rich shine by the touch of millions of feet. The hallway at the top of each flight was an overabundance of different varieties of semi-precious stone. Set into the wall facing the stairs was a heavy wooden door with carvings that didn’t provide even a modicum of rest for the tired eye. The doorpost was an equally ornate gilded affair. ‘Less is more’ clearly hadn’t been the motto of the architect who had designed this place.

As they reached the top of the third flight the door was whipped open and a small, peach-pink tornado whirled into the hallway.

"Signor Holmes. È arrivato, finalmente! Benvenuto! Ah, sono così felice!" The whirlwind came to rest after it had thrown itself at Sherlock’s breast, although it did manage to maintain a rapid surge of excited chatter. She drew her arms up to grab Sherlock by the cheekbones in order to trap him in an embrace that allowed her to kiss his face with a smacking noise. John did his utmost to keep a straight face during the proceedings.

The age of the phenomenon was rather difficult to fathom. The abundance of thick salt and pepper hair piled on top of her head in an ingenious scroll made him guess she must be in her sixties at least. This was belied by the almost childlike figure and soft skin on her thin forearms. John gave up the task as an impossibility and set to studying other aspects of her personality.

She must employ the services of a personal Connie Prince as the peach-pink, however unlikely, really did suit her extraordinarily well. Furthermore, John was relieved to find not all her jewelry had been stolen, as her arms, neck and ears were bedecked with an extensive array of what he supposed must be diamonds in various cuts and sizes.

“E il dottore.” John was the next one to be clamped to her feeble breast. He caught a whiff of quietly expensive perfume. “Questo è un miracolo! Signori, prego, entrate.” 

She shooed them inside, all the while maintaining a steady flood of Italian. John felt a stab of guilt as he had to admit to himself he would place his bet on Signora Ugolini over Mrs Hudson should the two of them ever end up as the finalists in the world contest for ‘Aimless Rambler of the Year’.

The woman turned all her considerable attention to Sherlock again, giving John a chance to sneak a look at the surroundings. He had been quite impressed with the furnishings of the Holmes’ homestead at his first Christmas dinner there, not to mention the halls in Buckingham Palace, which he had had the pleasure of admiring during his brief sojourn there at Mycroft’s instigation. Both examples of English sumptuousness shrunk to the likeness of the humble abode of a poor beggar as John observed the furnishings of the chamber he now found himself in. He did his best to keep the mask of indifference securely plastered on his face. He was roused from his admiration by the piercing voice of their hostess.

“Dottore Watson. Prego. Please. Scusa me. Inglese difficile speak. Reading molte … easy.” She gestured helplessly before turning to Sherlock with a quick smattering of Italian.

“Signora Ugolini wishes to apologise for the fact she doesn’t speak English very well, John,” Sherlock translated. “She wants you to know she enjoys the blog enormously though. Your English is very clear and concise.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. John shot him a warning glance. “Furthermore, she’d like to thank you for taking such good care of me. Oh, for God’s sake, wipe that smug look of your face, would you?”

“Are you sure your translation of that last sentence is correct?”

“Jesus Christ, John!”

“Thank you. Just John will do for now.”

***

After a parade through endless rows of hallways – each one a repetition of the former regarding the costliness of its decorations, the main variation apparently being the colour scheme of the precious materials that had been put to use – they finally entered a rather cosy sitting room. The French windows offered a fine view of yet another canal.

Signora Ugolini perched herself on the edge of a comfortable chair and indicated they should sit on the sofa. The coffee table was laid out with an extensive array of mouthwatering tartlets and other concoctions in every imaginable shape and colour, effectively reducing the inflight business class hospitality services of British Airways to a feeble mockery of the real thing.

Once they were properly fed and watered – Sherlock asking for nothing but a glass of water, which he steadfastly ignored once it had been presented by the dainty help – Sherlock started the investigation by asking the signora to specify when she had first noticed the theft. At least John surmised he must have been asking something along those lines.

To his profound startlement their hostess, who had been keeping up an amiable stream of chatter while John partook of her hospitality, pulled forth a lacy handkerchief from among the folds of her dress and burst into tears. In between the gushes, strings of words could be identified like: “i miei cari gioielli” and “mi sono più cari della mia stessa vita”. Sherlock signaled with a sideward inclination of his head for John to deal with this unexpected turn of events. John moved over to a chair next to the signora and started patting her hand while keeping up a soothing murmur of ‘there there’s. This appeared to produce the desired effect, allowing Sherlock to start his questioning in earnest.

After a quarter of an hour which mainly consisted of Signora Ugolini bewailing her “amati gioielli” she suddenly sprang to her feet, snatching her hand out of John’s comforting grasp, and started shouting at Sherlock.

“What did you say?” John hissed. He had observed an increasingly deep frown of frustration etch itself into Sherlock’s features, but surely that was no excuse to upset their client to this extent.

“Nothing,” Sherlock hissed back. He looked genuinely perplexed. “I asked her to take me to the room with the safe in order to have a look at it.”

Next to John, Signora Ugolini gave vent to her displeasure in what John presumed to be strong terms. “La cassaforte,” she shrieked. “Ma come si permette? Non maltratto certo gli animali!”

Sherlock blanched. “Mah, signora, mi scusi, cosa sta dicendo? Non capisco.”

Signora Ugolini cast him an exasperated look and whirled towards a sidetable, on which John had earlier noticed an excessive array of gilded photo frames in all imaginable shapes and sizes, each containing a different picture of a pair of elegant Siamese cats with piercing blue eyes.

Signora Ugolini snatched a pair of frames from the table and threw one into Sherlock’s lap, the other into John’s.

“Eccoli,” she cried. “Le mie gioie, i miei bambini, Campanella e Giaggiolo. Rapiti, scomparsi, i miei adorati piccoli. Bisogna ritrovarli all'istante, Signor Holmes. Ogni minuto conta.”

John didn’t need to have those sentences translated for him to understand a confusion of tongues of Babylonian proportions must have occurred sometime during the day.

***

Half an hour later they were out on the street again, Sherlock looking more downcast than John had ever seen him before. In front of them sky and water painted the façades of the palazzos with every shade of orange but Sherlock was obviously in no mood to admire the postcard-picture perfection. 

“Cats,” he murmured with barely moving lips. “Led up the garden path. Me, Sherlock Holmes, reduced to a finder of lost domestic animals.”

“Look here. I understand this is very hard for you.” John laid a comforting hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, but it was shrugged off instantly, as if John had attempted to bite instead of ease. 

“Leave me alone, John. I don’t need your simpering commiseration.”

John quietly agreed with him, but he would dearly have liked to be able to find some comfort for his boyfriend. Sherlock’s abject misery tore at his heartstrings. 

“Maybe you made a mistake in reading her e-mail,” he suggested. “After a week without a case you must have been desperate for anything to happen. So maybe you attached the wrong meaning to a term, I don’t know.” He vaguely waved his hands.

Sherlock pierced him with a withering look. “I don’t make mistakes like that, John. If that’s the best you have to offer I suggest you shut up and go find Anderson in order to converse with someone on an intellectual level that’s only slightly above yours. The resulting exchange of riveting witticisms will be past all belief, I’m sure.” His voice was a shard of ice, hurled to stab John where it would hurt the most.

He strode off. So much for providing comfort to the weary of mind.

***

Back in their suite, Sherlock resolutely clung to his morose silence, staring out the window with blind eyes. John busied himself with unpacking their suitcases and plugging the batteries of their laptops and his phone into the wall sockets. He brushed his teeth and installed himself on his side of the bed. It _was_ comfortable.

“Are you coming?” he asked.

Sherlock continued his contemplation of empty nothingness.

John sighed and turned his attention to the tourist guide Mrs Hudson had bought him. He read they were currently in one of the less touristy districts of the town. He understood it would take him at least half a year to visit all the churches and museums the city had on offer. He should eat a real Italian gelato and order a coffee at Florian’s, even though that would set him back fifteen euros. A visit to the famous opera was mandatory, and he couldn’t leave without having tasted a plate of moleche ripiene. The pages were brimming with so many do’s John found himself growing increasingly irritated. 

Two distorted tempers in one suite wouldn’t be advisable so he tossed the book on the night table.

“For the last time,” he said. “I apologise for shouting at you in front of Signora Ugolini that you should take the case. and I’m very unhappy for you that your spectacular jewel theft was turned into a search for lost cats . But we _need_ the money and we flew all the way in here and you owe Mycroft two boring investigations because you wanted us to trip over our toes to get here as fast as humanly possible. You had no option but to accept the case. You of all people should have the brains to see that. So all your sulking is to no avail and you could have the actual decency to act like a grown-up and stop it. Are you listening?”

Sherlock didn't respond.

John sighed. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced. “I suggest you do the same. Staring daggers at that window isn’t going to produce those bloody cats.”

Sherlock didn’t react at all. John sighed and flicked the light switch, reducing the room to darkness. He hadn’t really counted on Sherlock heeding his advice.

***

Some time during the night he was briefly awoken by a slight bounce of the bed. Looking over at Sherlock’s side he found his lover’s naked backside turned to him, the graceful lines of his shoulder blades and backbone highlighted by tentative glints of silvery moonlight. For an instant John considered inching over so he could spoon up. But on closer consideration he decided he could have travelled the whole Italian peninsula twice and not have found a marble statue more begging to be touched in its lovely flow of exquisite artistry, yet proving to be more icy cold when he finally rested his fingers there.

***

The morning found them on the hotel terrace under a proverbial azure sky.

“Have you made any plans yet?” John asked.

“I don’t know about you,” Sherlock answered in a worn-out voice. “I promised to be back at Signora Ugolini's at nine to start the search in earnest. Even though she was completely hysterical I managed to convince her it wouldn’t do to upset the whole building by looking for the damned beasts by night.”

“Don’t you want me to come along then?”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock spat. “When did you turn into an authority on finding lost animals? Damn. For all the rotten, bloody … Oh hell, it’s insufferable! Having to search for a pair of bloody Siamese named after bloody stupid flowers. Jesus!”

“Really? What were their names exactly? I didn’t catch those? Campa something and Gagga what was it?”

“Campanella and Giaggiolo. Bluebell and Gladiolus.”

John managed to keep a straight face for about thirty seconds before he burst out laughing. Oh my, this was rich. No wonder Sherlock was so angry. John felt very sorry for him but this was just too good to be true.

“You should have gone looking for them last night, Sherlock,” he hiccupped. “You would have found at least one of them thanks to the glow.”

“For God’s sake, John.”

John fought the laughter that kept welling up inside him. Each time he was certain he had finally overcome the urge a fresh gush of merriment broke forth. Sherlock’s chagrined face only managed to enhance his amusement. John’s sides ached with the exercise. At least his crack-up resulted in the arrival of a waiter at their table. John used his handkerchief to dry his eyes.

“What will you have?” he asked his boyfriend.

Sherlock just looked daggers at him. John understood he would have to do the ordering himself if he wanted to eat anything.

“Errm, duo cappuccino,” he told the waiter. “And … “ He looked about him for a menu. He honestly wouldn’t know how to place an order for breakfast in Italian. Relapsing into English shouldn’t be a problem in this place, he supposed, but he felt that if he resorted to his native language, it would put Sherlock into an even worse temper. John didn’t want to do that. He squirmed in his seat.

Sherlock heaved a sigh of truly epic proportions. “Due cappuccini con brioche alla crema,” he growled at the waiter. “Et un piatto d’uova strapazzate con pancetta per il signore.”

He lapsed into silence again.

“What did you order just now?” John asked. “I would have liked a cappuccino.”

“I ordered you one. And a plate of scrambled eggs with bacon and some sweet croissants.”

“Oh,” John said. “Angelo always understands when I ask for a cappuccino. I thought that was the appropriate Italian word.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Angelo isn’t an Italian, but the offspring of Greek immigrants. He was born in Tottenham, which makes him about as Italian as you or me. I’m amazed to find his fake Italian accent managed to fool even you, unobservant though you generally are.”

Now it was John’s turn to maintain the resolute silence.

“In Italian the last vowel of the noun changes depending on the singular or plural aspect,” Sherlock explained, relenting somewhat. “There are some exceptions of course. And two is 'due'. So you should have asked for 'due cappuccini'. It’s as simple as that.”

“All right. Thank you.” John cleared his throat. “Look here. I’m really dreadfully sorry about this whole rotten business. Are you sure you don’t want me to help you? I wouldn’t know how actually but …”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I’ll manage. I’ll probably end up in jail for strangling her. You can come and visit me then. You go and enjoy yourself, John. I would like for at least one of us to experience a modicum of pleasure out of this sorry affair. The worst of it all is I keep seeing the huge smirk that’s going to distort Mycroft’s face once he hears of this.”

John patted his hand in sympathy, then drew it close in a bold move to press an open-mouthed kiss on the smooth back. 

“Too often we suffer most sorely and thereby feel most poorly from dreaded aches and pains,” he quoted. “Maybe they have simply turned up during the night and she forgot to phone you to tell you so. Case closed.”

Sherlock took a sip of his cappuccino. “I appreciate the thought but consider it most unlikely. I’ll be off now. You go and have a good time.” He stood up.

“Shall we meet in the lobby at one?” John begged.

“If you insist. Fine.” Sherlock’s right hand brushed John’s shoulder and John was left alone with his breakfast. It was delicious. And the view _was_ stunning.

***

John spent the morning wandering the streets of the neighbourhood. Every once in a while he fell down on one of his knees near a cellar grate and made some mewling sounds or whispered the names of the infernal beasts. He didn’t really bank on any success but rather felt he had to do something. He sat for some time nursing another cappuccino on a terrace that was strategically placed in the shade in an attractive square and all of a sudden found he’d have to make a run for it if he wanted to be back at the hotel at the arranged time.

He dashed into the lobby at five past and was immediately pounced upon by an excited Sherlock, his face split in a grin that was almost painful to watch considering the extreme forces of gravity that must be at work to pull the corners of his lips this wide.

“John, finally,” his exultant voice boomed. “I’ve been texting you the whole morning. _Where have you been?_ ” He didn’t look annoyed, but tickled pink. He grabbed John’s hand and dragged him through the lobby, up the stairs. John checked his phone; the screen was black. Yet he was sure he had recharged the battery. Was it broken or what? Sherlock gave his arm an impatient tug.

“Hang on,” John told him. “You’re making me stumble. What’s up then all of a sudden? Don’t tell me Signora Ugolini was murdered?”

“No, John. But hush, hush. Wait till we’re alone in the privacy of our room.”

After Sherlock had closed the door to their suite he pulled John into a violent embrace, ending it with a kiss on each cheek. Still grinning inanely he inserted his hand into his jacket pocket and drew forth a folded sheet of paper.

“Campanella and Giaggiolo were abducted, John. This letter states the ransom, three necklaces for each cat. So it is about the jewels after all, thank God. No worry of going down the annals as a searcher for lost animals now. Look.”

John looked at the letter. It was composed of letters cut out of newspaper headlines and glued to the sheet. At the bottom were six photos, obviously taken with a phone and printed with the aid of a cheap printer on ordinary paper. Each of the photos showed a different necklace, slung around the neck of Signora Ugolini herself judging by the peach-pink clothing the model sported. 

“What does it say? I can’t read it. It’s in Italian.”

Sherlock laughed.

“That was their first big mistake, John. It’s not in Italian. Remember our conversation this morning? Once more you’ve proven yourself to be a great conductor of light. This whole atrocity is one big insult to one of the most basic rules of the Italian language. Two cats were abducted so they should be referred to as ‘gatti’ not ‘gatto’, see? In fact, these letters were cut not out of Italian newspapers but English ones, the Daily Mail to be more precise. Let’s classify this as mistake one A. 

"I’ll admit the Daily Mail is freely available at the main newspaper stands of this city, but why buy a foreign newspaper if you’re Italian and have plenty of newspapers in your own language to choose from? Somebody reading foreign newspapers, you say? Then why the Daily Mail? The Times or Independent seem more likely choices for the better educated, and those undoubtedly are the ones to buy any foreign papers at all. Those in banking and business would stick to the Financial Times surely. 

"The next conjecture might be that our abductor is extremely clever, hence the choice of a plebeian publication and the deliberate spelling mistakes. No, he’s not. Instead of exploiting the utter havoc wrought in Signora Ugolini’s mind by his missive and proposing to swap the jewels for the beasts at the soonest possible moment he names a date three days hence. Which gives us plenty of time to find the perpetrator and the damned cats. 

"We’re looking for a none-too-well-educated foreigner who has free access to the building and has had plenty of time to observe the comings and goings of both Signora Ugolini and her pets. Which, as I’ve been assured in an undue amount of phrasing, are never allowed to roam in the garden. Only on the loggia. Unless a crane was put to use yesterday to reach the loggia, the perpetrator must have approached the flat from one of the other balconies on either side. There’s only one close enough to risk the approach to Signora Ugolini’s, provided you do have some athletic skills …”

“Stop it,” John said.

“What, why?”

“You’re going too fast. I can’t follow you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Fine. Where should I start again?”

“Nowhere. It’s just … talk a little slower, would you?”

“I was almost near the end, John. My temporary solution is the cats were abducted by the cleaning woman of one of the nearby apartments. I’ve already asked around and I’m frankly amazed to find these people simply don’t care whom they employ. They couldn’t give me a last name or an address for their cleaning women, and the descriptions they came up with are worse than nothing. Although only three of the residents I’ve spoken to so far referred to a female foreigner, one of them being Signora Ugolini’s next door neighbour. My working assumption is the three of them were referring to the same female foreigner. Apparently, she’s supposed to do some cleaning three times a week in at least two of the flats, so if she’s indeed our culprit that gives us a fair chance to identify her.”

“Okay.” John nodded. “I don’t mind hanging around in that garden for a few days.”

Sherlock laughed. “We’re not to draw any attention to ourselves, John. We’re to be completely inconspicuous. We can’t have the perpetrator panicking and doing away with the beasts. I’ve already thought of a disguise that’s going to serve us just fine. I’ll need the afternoon to set everything going. Tomorrow we’ll start our investigation in earnest.”

He pressed his lips to John’s and turned to the door next. “I must be off. The game is on, John.” He winked and swirled out into the corridor.

***

John spent the remainder of the day doing nothing except being a happier man. The thought of mingling among the tourists in order to gawk at the supposed wonders of the city didn’t hold a lot of appeal to him. He resumed his wandering of the back streets instead, observing the life that bustled around him amid the timeworn walls that edged the lapping waters of the canals. He had a squid risotto accompanied by a glass of white wine in a lovely little restaurant and ended up at the same little terrace where he had spent part of his morning. 

It was already way past midnight when he found his way back to the hotel. Sherlock wasn’t in yet, but a text message on his phone – the stupid thing had sprung back to life with a happy ping at twelve o’clock exactly. What _was_ wrong with it? – informed him he shouldn’t worry and have a good rest, so he brushed his teeth and went to bed. Outside, the lagoon was transformed into a softly undulating, silvery-silken dream once more. John stared at it for five minutes. Then his eyes fell shut.

***

He was awoken by a violent shaking of his right shoulder.

“John, wake up. Come on, John.”

John blinked rapidly a few times. It was still dark outside. He yawned and stretched. “What time is it?”

“Half past five,” Sherlock answered. “Go and shower. Breakfast will be served in five minutes.”

John obeyed. After a quick shower he walked back into the room, feeling refreshed and awake. The smell of strong, hot coffee wafted toward him from the adjoining room. Sherlock was sitting on the bed, tying the shoelaces of stout workman’s boots and dressed in the strangest attire John had ever seen him in. Spread out on the bed was a similar uniform, clearly for John. He eyed the none-too-clean fluorescent orange overall with distaste.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Our uniform. We’re going into battle, remember?”

“My battle dress is more sophisticated than this eyesore. Jesus Sherlock, even _you_ look ridiculous wearing this.” The last was true, especially as the hideous garment was too small for Sherlock and his wrists and ankles protruded like sticks from the wide sleeves and trouser legs, lending him the look of a scarecrow. 

“It’s perfect camouflage. And it will be just a few days or hopefully much less.”

“It looks very warm,” John said, thinking of the summer forecast.

“Stop nagging, will you?” Sherlock’s tone of voice was headed straight for the dangerous edge of a ravine of intense annoyance.

John sighed and put on the offensive item over his vest and pants. It _was_ very warm. Sherlock had evidently foreseen John’s justified complaints and chosen a peace offering of a good breakfast. John sipped his coffee and tucked into his fried eggs with tomatoes. Sherlock stuck to the coffee.

“So what exactly is the disguise for?”

“We’re employees of the Venetian waterworks,” Sherlock explained. “Sadly, last night a water pipe sprung, resulting in the loss of the water supply to the building where Signora Ugolini lives. We’re going to fix it. Unforeseen problems will keep cropping up until I’ve identified the kidnapper.”

“Oh,” John said. “I don’t know a thing about plumbing. This doesn’t sound like one of your more brilliant ideas.”

“All my ideas are brilliant,” Sherlock huffed. “You don’t have to worry about a thing. There isn’t any actual problem, I’ve only arranged with the authorities that the supply will be cut off until I tell them to switch it back on again. Or whatever they do to ensure the water starts flowing once you open a tap.”

“How on earth did you manage to arrange that? Don’t tell me Mycroft branches out into public works on the continent.”

Sherlock’s expression was smug in the extreme. “I wouldn’t put it past him. Mycroft likes to have his fat fingers in as many greasy pies as possible. But no, I managed to win the eternal gratitude of the general director by disclosing to him the number of the bank account the employee salaries were actually transferred to last month, together with the name of the employee who effected this transfer. As the director himself was considered to be the main suspect by the police, you can imagine he was quite happy with the information, and more than willing to oblige my little quirk. He did mutter somewhat about the complaints he would receive from some of his clients, but he was sharp enough to see those would be but a small discomfort compared to spending time in prison for embezzlement. So you won’t have to do a thing, except bang on a pipe every now and then. All has been arranged, John. Trust me.”

“You solved a case yesterday afternoon in order to have someone kowtow to your needs?”

“I solved the case as we flew in. I was just scrolling through some of the papers when my eye was struck by this neat little problem. I found all the pieces of the puzzle had been published quite extensively by the papers during the last week. It simply took someone of my calibre to put them together the right way. And I do have those boring cases from Mycroft waiting for me once we return, so I considered I might as well learn how these things work.”

“I see,” John said. While he had been vaguely staring out the window or at the map Sherlock’s brain had been busily whirring away next to him just for the heck of it. Amazing.

Sherlock finished his coffee. 

“Shall we be off then?”

***

John had to admit Sherlock’s preparations had been exceedingly thorough. The first thing that met his eye as he stepped through the gate into the courtyard was a hideous portable toilet that was placed prominently against the wall next to the entrance. It didn’t add to the overall attractiveness of the surroundings. Sherlock explained there had been no time to actually hook it up to the waste pipe; its sole purpose was to increase the credibility of their cover. Inside, John would find a bottle he could make use of should the need arise. 

Next to the toilet was a small tent, the canvas worn and dirty, with a great heap of paving stones lying beside it. The small area had been taped off. Several official-looking signs bearing the seal of the Venetian waterworks announced works were in progress.

Inside the tent Sherlock had done his best to make their wait as comfortable as possible. An inflatable mattress took up a great part of the floor. A small Bunsen burner with a kettle balanced over it was standing next to a pair of mugs and a packet of John’s favourite PG Tips and a box of almond biscuits. A small notebook and some pens were lying upon John le Carre’s latest. There were plenty of bottles of water. A set of spare clothing for both of them lay handy in case they suddenly needed to change.

“It is perfect,” John told Sherlock. “How on earth did you manage to arrange all this at such short notice?”

“Well, you know.” Sherlock’s lashes wafted down in a travesty of diffidence. The smile of self-satisfaction was warranted this time though. No denying that.

“There’s just one little detail you seem to have forgotten,” John said. “Easily overlooked, so I can’t really blame you, but you’ll be the first to admit the proof of the pudding is to be found in the small details.”

“Oh, and what may that minor detail be?” Sherlock was all peevishness.

“Don’t worry,” John told him. “I’ll take care of it later.”

***

Sherlock’s vexation didn’t lessen as John shoved the transistor radio into the tent a few hours later.

“Why?” he asked as John turned it on, filling the quiet courtyard with blaring Italian pop music.

“One can’t have works in progress without the radio on at full blast,” John shouted back at him. “I’m amazed to find you’ve never observed that with that great big brain of yours. Or rather heard. Maybe you’ve deleted it. I really would have expected you to have come up with a correlation of the effects of the volume of the music on the activity of the workers. Turned it into a nice little treatise on the website.”

“This isn’t music, John. It’s noise.”

John shrugged his shoulders.

“Anything for ‘The Work'.”

***

John kept an eye on the comings and goings through the gate, adding to the clamour of the radio by hitting a piece of metal with a hammer every now and then, while Sherlock mostly loitered outside the tent, chatting up the residents or hanging around with his hands in his pockets, seemingly staring into nothing. John guessed together they managed to provide a very convincing picture of menial workers as they were probably to be found all over the world – one man doing all the work while the others just stand around.

Nothing that excited Sherlock’s interest happened during the morning. Signora Ugolini passed the tent at around eleven o’clock. It was obvious she was dying to peek inside but had been instructed by Sherlock to act as if she didn’t know them, so they had an amiable conversation for a minute, which was ended by Sherlock diving into the toilet booth.

At twelve he entered the tent with a plastic bag that held some slices of pizza. “Siesta,” he said and turned off the radio. Heavenly silence floated down upon the courtyard, transforming it into the haven of tranquility it had once been.

John ate two slices of pizza and Sherlock a half while they lay next to each other on the mattress. After they were finished John tried to initiate a little kissing, reasoning they had nothing better to do anyway as it was hardly likely anyone would arrive or leave during the sacred hour of lunch. Besides, Sherlock looked inordinately appealing in the soft, filtered light of the tent, his lips shiny from the olive oil. Sherlock didn’t seem adverse at first, even opening his mouth to grant John access, but all of a sudden he started fidgeting and squirming, complaining John’s sighs and moans were giving their game away. John’s hand was already reaching for the knob on the transistor to deal with that little problem when Sherlock froze.

“Ssst, quiet,” he hissed. They both squinted through the small gap of the entrance. A big girl with long, blonde hair had entered the courtyard. In her right hand she held a big set of keys, from her left dangled a plastic bag. 

“I’ll follow her,” Sherlock said.

He unfolded himself from the tent, as quiet and graceful as a black panther. The girl walked straight ahead in the direction of the staircase in the corner opposite the one that gave access to Signora Ugolini’s apartment, Sherlock following close behind.

John sighed. It had been worth a try.

***

“It’s her, John. I’m certain, she had big scratches on her hands and arms. She let herself into the apartment that must be right next to Signora Ugolini's with her own key and started shouting straight away it was only the cleaning woman. I hadn’t counted on us being this lucky. Move over so I can change, will you? I’m going to follow her home. I’m sure she must be hiding the beasts there.”

Sherlock was all gleeful excitement, high on cloud nine. John helped him dress in the small space, silently praying Sherlock was right. The tent had been fun for the morning, but the thought of having to spend days there was profoundly depressing, however meticulous Sherlock’s preparations for a comfortable watch might have been. 

After he was dressed Sherlock patted his pockets. He whisked one of Greg’s ID cards out of his breast pocket.

“I was certain I had brought one of those. She’ll be very eager to deal with New Scotland Yard instead of the Guardia di Finanza.”

“Will you need anything else?”

“A pair of sturdy gloves for handling the beasts but I’ve got those.” Sherlock turned towards John. “Wish me luck,” he whispered and suddenly his lips were on John’s, diving in for a whale of a snog. John let himself be dragged under, reacting with vociferous enthusiasm. Sherlock broke the kiss with some reluctance. 

“Laters,” he murmured and crawled out of the tent, ensuring his leg accidentally brushed a part of John that had reacted with profound interest to the proceedings. Once outside he turned and shot John a wink over the rim of the sunglasses which had suddenly materialised on the tip of his nose.

John contemplated for five minutes whether he actually dared to masturbate inside the semi-private confines of the tent before deciding against it. If Sherlock was right John would have to wait just a few more hours for Sherlock to be free and hotly interested. He would find John more than willing to comply with his needs. To distract himself he fell to a careful study of the surroundings instead.

***

At three o’clock the girl passed the tent on her way out again. John had written a far-flung description of everyone who had entered or left through the gate, together with an indication of the staircases they had chosen. He kept at it to while the boredom away, hoping the girl would be living somewhere nearby and turn out to be their suspect so he could leave the tent soon. It had turned into a stifling hot prison by now. John didn’t dare leave it for fear somebody would approach him and start talking to him. Sherlock’s whole set-up would have fallen apart should that happen, God forbid.

A beer would be rather welcome, he mused while preparing his tenth cuppa of the day. The PG Tips had lost all their appeal. He would change to a different brand once they were home again. Maybe he should ask Mycroft for some advice. He had somehow always struck John as a man who was most particular about his tea.

***

“John! Would you please change and come out? I’d like you to meet Maggie Smith.” Sherlock’s voice startled John awake. Disoriented, he lashed out at the transistor and cut short Andrea Bocelli, who was just then gasping for breath in order to start wailing away in earnest.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said simply. “Come on, Maggie. We’ll sit over there to wait for John.”

Upon crawling out of the tent John found Sherlock and the blonde girl seated on a nearby bench. On the ground next to them was a suitcase and wicker basket for transporting small animals, out of which came the sounds of cats mewling. John laughed with relief.

“Of all the stupid, wicked … “ he started in the direction of the girl but Sherlock raised his hand.

“Hush, John. I’ve told Maggie I’m the bad cop and you’re the good cop so please don’t set about spoiling the picture I’ve painted. I want you to accompany Maggie to the airport to ensure she catches her flight to London. Make sure to be back at the hotel at nine at the latest to change, as the restaurant I’ve booked expects us at ten and it’s quite a walk from the hotel.”

John goggled at him.

“You’ve solved the case.”

“Yes, well. It’s proven to be one not very blog-worthy but if there ever was a case, you could say I’ve solved it. Though it all depends on the extent of Maggie’s resolve. She’ll tell you all about it. In the meantime I’ll deal with the vociferous task of reuniting Signora Ugolini with her beloved jewels. Sadly, I didn’t think of packing ear plugs. I’ll just have to bear the brunt of her no doubt clamorous joy like a brave man then.” He gave John a wry smile and extended his hand to the girl.

“Goodbye, Maggie. Remember what I’ve told you. Now hurry, I’m not going to solve four cases of embezzlement of British government funds for your convenience.”

***

“What did he tell you then?” John asked once they were seated in the water taxi.

Maggie shrugged her shoulders. “Oh you know, about his past. I’ve got to say, he’s pretty awesome. I would never have thought by the looks of him. He’s a really cool dude. Well, it takes all sorts I guess.” She didn’t offer any further information and John didn’t want to probe for more. He guessed it had something to do with Sherlock’s past drug habits. Those had never really interested him except for the fact he wished them to remain where they were – in the past.

“All right. How about you then? Whatever drove you to do such a stupid thing? How did you end up here in Venice all on your own? You don’t have to tell me, I’d just like to understand.”

“I hardly understand it myself.” She looked shy and incredibly young all of a sudden. “I was born on a farm out in the middle of nowhere The school I attended only had forty pupils. Bit of a shock when I went to college in the big, bad city.” 

She fell silent and looked at her feet. When she started speaking again, John found he already knew the story.

“I made it all the way to the second term. The boys came first and the booze and drugs after and before I knew it I was out on the streets to provide for both myself and my ‘boyfriend’. When he started hitting me I fled to London. Things didn’t improve there, and I decided I might as well be miserable with the sun beating down upon me instead of a bloody drugged unattractive git and the sodding rain. I booked a cheap flight to Rome – I’d always wanted to go there ever since I’d read about the Roman emperors when I was about ten – but Rome was just one humongous disappointment. So I drifted around a bit and ended up here in Venice. The Italians are wild about real blondes so I could ask a rather high price. Still, I hated every minute of it. Sometimes I wish all men were gay, having it off with each other, like you two.”

John didn’t think it was necessary to comment on that.

“My next-door neighbour approached me one day to ask whether I would like to take over some of her cleaning jobs from her,” Maggie continued. “We had gotten quite friendly, sharing a drink and a joint every other evening, wallowing in our misery. Sharing the same hell does create quite a bond. I considered the work would be harder but less depressing so I accepted. For a few weeks it was all right, really. Great to have my pussy all back to myself again and to be able to eat a banana without disgusting associations cropping up. Until I noticed Signora Ugolini.”

She blushed and her voice was suddenly thick with tears.

“She had so much. Of course I had noticed the people living in that building must be ridiculously rich but in none of the houses I cleaned were the goodies flaunted that openly. Besides, nicking something from any of the others would result in my friend being thrown into prison and I didn’t want that to happen, obviously. But it was awful, like she did it on purpose. Every day I entered that courtyard there she was, flashing the diamonds and rubies and God knows what else. I actually chose some of the less expensive ones, you can see so for yourself if you’d take a look at the lot. I hated her, and her stupid cats. I could hear her cooing at the bloody beasts as I was cleaning the loggia. Hell, those damned cats had a better life than I had.”

The tears had started trickling out of her eyes, coursing down her cheeks in glistening rivulets. John patted her hand and found her a paper handkerchief. She thanked him and used it to blow her nose with some force. John handed her another one, which was accepted with a wavering smile.

“Thank you. You are sweet. You both are. And your bloke is decidedly handsome. Hell, I wouldn’t mind giving him the full works, he could have it for free.”

Fine, dream on, as if John would let that happen. He cleared his throat. “You had noticed the cats,” he prompted her to continue her story.

“Yeah. One day I hit upon this hare-brained scheme. Or rather cat-brained I suppose. I reckoned she wouldn’t even miss the necklaces once she handed them over, she had so many to choose from. Everything went surprisingly well, the cats entering the basket thanks to the disgusting fish heads I had thrown in there as bait. The trouble only started when I got home and they attacked me once I let them out. Here … “ She showed John the scratches on her arms and hand and legs. 

“They were a pair of beasts straight out of hell. Together they created the most awful noise. I had to drug them yesterday evening in order to be able to catch a wink of sleep. And I was terribly afraid of the neighbours. They aren’t an enquiring lot, but still. Thank God my friend is out of town for a few days. Although I hate leaving this way all of a sudden without being able to say goodbye to her. She’s the only person who has been good to me during the last three years. Apart from you two, that is.”

“Yes,” John said. “I’m definitely interested in that part of your story. I know Sherlock has got his own weird ideas about justice, but still … “

“I was actually grateful when he rang the doorbell and told me I should open up to the police. The beasts had attacked me again the moment I got home and I had only managed to get them off me by throwing them some more fish heads. He helped me catch them and put them in the basket. Then he listened to my story. After I had finished he told me to go and pack my suitcase if I had one. Next he made a lot of calls and sent off a flurry of texts. When I was done he told me he had booked me a flight and a train ticket back home. And he has arranged me a scholarship. He said strings are being pulled right now for me to go to Cambridge and read history.” She looked decidedly happy all of a sudden. 

“He warned me not to raise my hopes too high but he was ninety percent certain he could arrange it for me. Something to do with his brother … “

“You’re very lucky British government officials do seem to have rather long fingers these days,” John said. “Although they seem to dive straight for the cash, not the diamonds. Whatever were you going to do if everything had gone according to plan?”

Maggie shrugged her shoulders again. “Oh, I don’t know. Pried the stones out of the settings and sold them far too cheap to some crook, I guess. Live the regular life after. I’d rather study and have another chance at grabbing me a real life though. I’m eternally grateful to your man.”

“Try to hold onto that feeling.”

“I will.”

***

John managed to put Maggie onto her plane in time, thank God. The thought of assisting Sherlock in _four_ cases of embezzlement wasn’t very appealing. 

***

Upon entering their suite John found a freshly-shaved and showered Sherlock strategically situated next to a bottle of beer with the condensation pearling on the glass. The choice which of the two delicacies to grab first wasn’t a hard one. After Sherlock was allowed to dive up again for breath he presented John with the beer.

“Here,” he said. “You will be relieved to learn the Venetian waterworks have managed to find and solve the problems with uncharacteristic speed and the water supply to Signora Ugolini's building is functioning properly again.”

John took a swig of his beer. “I’m very glad to hear you say so. What made you decide to play the good Samaritan all of a sudden?”

“Oh, you know. She was really miserable when I found her. She hasn’t exactly been living the life of Riley, now has she?”

“No,” John admitted. “But that’s the situation for millions of people.”

“Yes. But some of us get lucky and find someone to pull them out of the mire they managed to work themselves into. Maggie Smith’s stupid idea might actually turn out to be the best one she’s ever had. I had a look at her results in school and college and I’m of the opinion a very promising student was lost in her. I’m convinced she’ll be able to turn this second chance to her utmost advantage” 

So John had been right about her story hitting a personal note with Sherlock. He would discuss it one day with Greg over a pint at the Yard’s local.

“Was Signora Ugolini happy to be reunited with her precious pets?”

A look of acute weariness travelled over Sherlock’s features. “As I had surmised, the extent of her gratitude was limitless, verbally, but, and this was a pleasant surprise, also financially.” 

He handed John a cheque. John’s eyes flew wide open as he counted the number of zeros scrawled behind the five at the beginning of the number. 

“Bloody hell!”

“Quite. Furthermore, I’m delighted to say Mrs Hudson profits from this sorry affair as well. And most handsomely, I believe.” He whisked open a little jewelry box that had been lying beside the cheque. A pair of sapphire and diamond earclips flashed at John.

“Signora Ugolini was very dismissive of my choice at first, stating I was giving Mrs Hudson a bad deal and should really go for the ten carat diamond ones. I was quite worn out having to explain to her Mrs Hudson wouldn’t be very likely to wear those doing the shopping or going over for a bit of gossiping with Mrs Turner. She finally relented and had to admit I was probably right. Do you think Mrs Hudson will approve of my choice?”

“I’m certain of it. You’ve just earned yourself two weeks of commentless experimenting, you lucky bastard.”

Sherlock smirked with satisfaction. “Yes, well. She doesn’t have to know how I got them.”

“So, tomorrow we’re off then?”

“No, it’s still coming down in buckets in London and Signora Ugolini informed me she had booked us a whole week here so I considered we might as well stay and enjoy a little holiday. I can’t say I’m greatly looking forward to interrogating Mycroft’s boring minions in order to tease boring so-called classified information out of them to solve Mycroft’s boring little money problems. Besides, I’d really like to go on a day trip to see Palladio’s Villa Rotonda.”

John had never heard of the Villa Rotonda, but he had to admit sometimes Sherlock had the best of ideas.

***

Sherlock was already dressed to the nines when John came out of the shower. The dark blue linen suit was combined with a white shirt cut out of a material that had a discreet, glossy stripe woven into it. The riveting ensemble set off all Sherlock’s assets: his lithe form, the deep black of his curls, the shiny pink of his buxom lips, the opaline shimmer of his eyes. John contemplated throwing Sherlock on the bed and getting rid of the garments at the greatest possible speed. Instead he said: “You look wonderful. That’s a new suit you’re wearing, isn’t it?”

“Yes, you do like it then?”

“Better than the overalls.”

“Didn’t keep you from wanting to kiss me.”

“No, but I would still want to kiss you if you were dressed in a burlap sack. And have my wicked way with you to boot.”

Sherlock laughed. “Might be an interesting experiment.” He gestured to the clothes he had spread out on the bed. “I would really like you to wear those John. You will look decidedly out of place in the restaurant we’re going to if you’re not wearing a jacket.”

***

You could certainly say that again. John thought he had successfully progressed to a feeling of indifference towards surroundings that abounded in excessive gilded scrolls, but this place set a new standard. The restaurant was packed to the gills with laughing, glittering people, the happy Venetian elite, John supposed. Still, he only had eyes for Sherlock. Together with quite a few other men and women, as he noticed to his immense satisfaction. As usual, Sherlock appeared to be oblivious to the stares he attracted. Beneath the table John’s thigh was wedged firmly between Sherlock’s knees.

Sherlock ordered their food and the wine. His decision for half-bottles sent the delicious fluttering that had started in John’s belly during their walk to the restaurant further south. Sherlock was undeniably as intent upon the evening ending in a certain way as John was.

Throughout their meal they discussed plans for the rest of their holiday, the fluttering in John solidifying at Sherlock’s insistence they keep to their suite for at least a day. He pictured a naked Sherlock spread out on the bed both on his back and front, Sherlock under the shower and in the big bath, Sherlock draped over the elaborately gilded sofa, Sherlock at night gazing out over the lagoon while leaning his hands on the edge of the balcony and presenting his bare back to John (would they dare to do that? Oh God, yes! John would) and Sherlock on his knees on the thick carpet that covered the floor while John engaged him in various interesting activities.

“Stop that, John. Enjoy your food instead.” Sherlock’s voice was sharp but his eyes glittered and his knees pressed John’s thigh even harder. 

“It’s delicious,” John intoned. 

The knee on the inside of John’s thigh inched a little higher up his leg.

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Sherlock murmured, demure eyes resting on his plate.

***

It was past midnight before they left the restaurant. Once they’d crossed the bridge that led towards the quarter where their hotel was situated, the streets grew increasingly quiet until at last they appeared to be the only people roaming a silent, deserted city, the buildings and squares bathed in a soft, serene light that was eerily beautiful. 

John had draped his arm around Sherlock’s narrow waist and Sherlock had laid his cheek against the top of John’s head. Together they walked as one. This was what being with Sherlock could also be like, and these moments more than compensated for all the days of prolonged, aggravated sulking. 

They passed a huge gateway, the recess into the wall so deep, the gate itself was lost in darkness. On the spur of the moment John darted into the crevice, towing Sherlock along and pushing him up against the wall.

“John, what ... ” 

In answer John put his hand on Sherlock’s nape and drew him down into a kiss. He started gently, just brushing their lips, but soon the feeling of Sherlock’s breath against his mouth and the memory of Sherlock’s teasing in the afternoon induced him to glide his lips over Sherlock’s in earnest.

Sherlock responded willingly, opening up to John, his agile tongue shooting out to play with John’s teeth and tickle his tongue. John grabbed an even more greedy hold on Sherlock’s neck and set to work in earnest now, delving into the sweet tastiness being offered to him, stroking and hugging the supple wet velvet of Sherlock’s tongue with his own.

With his other hand he grabbed Sherlock’s arse to draw him in closer, delighted to find further evidence of Sherlock’s approval of John’s initiative brushing his hipbone. He felt Sherlock’s right hand descend from his shoulder, where it had been resting, and clutch _his_ arse, ensuring an even closer contact of their bodies. 

Sherlock’s leg was squeezed between his. John read that as an invitation and started rutting against the lean thigh. Sparks of pleasure shot out from his groin. Doing that out here in the open felt incredibly exciting. But no; he opened his eyes. Sherlock’s face – eyes closed, mouth searching for another kiss – was barely visible in the darkness. They were nigh invisible should someone pass them. And what a face was presented to him, the moonlight dramatising the high cheekbones, the point of his nose, Sherlock’s lips. Christ, those lips. John fell to them again hungrily.

He could feel Sherlock’s hand inching higher, then his shirt was being pulled out of his trousers and Sherlock’s hand started insinuating itself beneath the waistband. The touch of those digits sent a shiver down John’s spine, right down to the spot Sherlock’s long fingers were aiming for.

He clenched Sherlock’s backside even tighter, ensuring his hip grazed the hard ridge in Sherlock’s trousers as he rode his thigh. With his other hand he started flicking open Sherlock’s shirt buttons. He was suddenly desperate to lick one of Sherlock’s nipples, to tease the soft rosy bud of flesh with his teeth.

Sherlock hissed, throwing his head back and bucking up against John with a roll of his supple hips. The next moment one of his hands was at the front of John’s trousers, opening the button and zip and reaching for John as if he were a lifeline cast out to a drowning victim on the wide, undulating ocean.

“No.” John swatted the hand away. “You too.”

“All right, come here, between my legs,” Sherlock said, his voice hoarse and low. He fumbled with his own button and zip and lined John up between his legs. He sagged a little, leaning against the wall and wrapped his hand around their erections.

John felt the warm hand close around them both, Sherlock’s hot shaft throbbing against his. They both rested a moment, Sherlock panting into John’s mouth. Then he started stroking their cocks with long, deliberate movements. John’s hands were both braced around Sherlock’s arse, whether to support him or himself he didn’t know. Sherlock’s expert caresses, ending with a flick of the wrist on every other stroke soon had the pre-ejaculate seeping up to smooth his strokes. 

And there it was, that moment, the urgency to let go. But no, John fought his body’s need for release. Don’t come now, he thought. Please don’t. Let him come first so you can watch that, he’s so gorgeous when he comes. You know that. He added his hand to Sherlock’s and heard the gasp rise in the long white throat, saw the shudder overtake his lover’s body and felt the sperm spurt between them while Sherlock moaned in his ecstasy with eyes shut and half-opened, vulnerable lips. John kissed him, his own lips trembling. “Yes, let it come, there, just do it, oh God, yes, you’re wonderful.” He was breathing nonsense against the slack mouth of his lover, talking him through his orgasm, until he felt the last hot gushes well up over their locked fingers. He tightened his grasp on Sherlock’s hand for the final tug he needed. Then he was hurled over the edge, desperately holding onto Sherlock, jerking his hips up against the now-pliant body sagging in the doorway, spilling his release.

***

They stood together in the quiet darkness, both panting and finding their breath again, John resting his head against Sherlock’s chest, inhaling the slightly-bitter scent of their mingled semen wafting up to him.

“I believe you soiled my nice new suit,” Sherlock said at last.

“Oh, shut up. You can send it to the cleaners at the hotel.”

“I didn’t say I mind.”

“No?”

“Totally worth it. I would never have surmised having sex in the open could be so stimulating.”

“Really?”

“Definitely, yes.”

John considered. “Well, I do have some further ideas.”


End file.
